by Douglas Hill
But his mind was still a legionary’s mind – controlled, disciplined, aware. He did not miss the glitter of anticipation and triumph in Thr’un’s eyes whenever Keill staggered, or when one of Keill’s attacks failed.
And Keill did not hesitate when his mind weighed up the danger, and produced what could be his only, desperately risky chance to survive.
The giant was given to gloating, to over-confidence. He had already been led to believe that Keill had only one usable arm. Lead him on a little further...
Now as he circled and countered, Keill let his body sag even more, let himself stumble and catch himself more often, let his breathing become ragged panting.
The gleam grew in Thr’un’s eyes, his teeth flashed in a victory smile, as he plunged in pursuit of his apparently collapsing opponent.
Any moment now, Keill told himself as he weakly swayed aside from a flailing boot, pretending to half-stagger before recovering. He circled again, moving carefully. The timing had to be perfect, Thr’un had to approach at exactly the right angle, and had to respond in exactly the right, orthodox, predictable way...
The giant hurtled forward, just as Keill wanted him to. And Keill swung his left fist, slowing the punch slightly, invitingly.
Thr’un took the invitation. One hand flashed up and grasped Keill’s wrist, the other huge arm clamped his elbow. Then the giant pivoted, twisted, and threw.
In the microsecond before his feet left the floor, a flurry of images passed through Keill’s mind. The unbelievable words of Talis, on the Overseers’ asteroid – the aftermath of the torture session at the hands of Jiker and Rish – the reassuring words of Glr...
He had manoeuvred Thr’un into using a standard hold-and-throw, so basic in unarmed combat as to be almost instinctive. If performed properly, as Keill’s body was swung up and across his arm should break neatly in about three places.
He had been sure that Thr’un, with the orthodoxy of his technique, would use the hold. And he had been sure that the giant would not miss a chance to cripple his opponent’s other arm, after which he would no doubt take his time at kicking Keill to death.
But the arm... did not break.
Keill flexed his body as he arched through the air, and his feet thudded firmly on to the floor, instantly finding balance and leverage. The tendons in his left elbow shrieked with the wrenching pain, but held.
Thr’un, expecting a shattered arm within his grasp, but finding instead that he was holding an arm like a steel bar, was dragged forward for a fleeting instant, off-balance, exposed.
And Keill, oblivious to the blaze of agony in his injured shoulder, swung his right fist across in a short arc with precise timing, swivelling his perfectly poised body as he struck, so that all his weight, all his fury, all his vengeful hatred followed into and through the blow.
In the Martial Games of Moros, such a blow from the fist of Keill Randor had smashed through slabs of plasticrete piled nearly a metre high – had splintered a wooden post as thick as Keill’s own waist – had once even crumpled and cracked a plate of niconium steel.
Now that fist struck lethally at Thr’un’s temple, just above the ear where the skull is thinnest, and crushed it like paper.
The huge armoured body was flung away like a dry leaf in a storm, crashing to the floor with a heavy, echoing finality.
PART FOUR
AFTERMATH AND BEGINNING
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The viewscreens showed the peaceful, star-glittering vastness of deep space. Far behind, on a tiny moon called Creffa, lay the molten, crumbled ruins of what had once been a gleaming space-dome, flattened by the guns of Keill’s spaceship – the last thing Keill had done before his battle fury was spent, before he had sagged back to let Glr take the controls.
The little alien had taken the ship leaping out beyond the planetary system of Saltrenius, far into the welcoming reaches of space. There her strange, small hands had dressed Keill’s shoulder, rubbed medication on his aching, tormented muscles and generally attended to all his hurts. Now Keill lay back, luxuriating in the restful clasp of the slingseat, and – with the ship under computer guidance – waited while Glr finished her long-range telepathic report to the Overseers.
At last the round eyes opened. Talis regrets that the communicator on the dome had to be destroyed. It might have provided some directional fix.
Keill shook his head. ‘There wasn’t much left of it before I destroyed the dome,’ he said aloud.
Certainly the Overseers approve the dome’s destruction,Glr said. They wished no hints of what happened there left to be found by searchers from the Warlord.
‘Secrecy at all costs,’ Keill intoned, hearing Glr’s soft laughter in his mind.
Talis is very interested in your mention of the group called the Deathwing. He regrets you were not able to learn more about it.
‘I beg his pardon,’ Keill said sourly. ‘That conversation ended a little abruptly.’
The mental laughter rose. He understands that the Deathwing is a special force from which the Warlord selects his emissaries. But he wonders if you have any theories about the others in the group – especially the person whom Thr’un called ’the One’.
‘Not really. Except that if he’s the leader of that group, and someone like Thr’un only a follower, he must be fairly impressive.’
Just so.Glr’s imitation of Talis’s favourite phrase made Keill grin. The Overseers also ask if you have any doubts remaining, about what Talis told you during your stay with them.
Doubts? Keill felt again the chill that had swept over him in that desperate moment of realization when, facing Thr’un, he had learned that the whole fearful story of the Warlord was true beyond all doubt.
‘Only one,’ he said grimly. ‘That if I meet any more members of this Deathwing, I doubt if I’ll survive the encounter.’
Glr’s bright eyes shone with amusement as she relayed the message. Talis is sure you will, now that you know more about what to expect. He is very pleased at being right about his assessment of your survival potential.
‘Fine,’ Keill muttered. ‘Tell him we’re all very pleased here, too.’
He also hopes you will now confirm,Glr went on, that you will act as the Overseers’ emissary. To go on their behalf to worlds that are threatened by the Warlord – and to do what you can to oppose the threat.
Keill knew what his answer was, yet he hesitated. On their behalf? But he was still a legionary, if alone – and he had a job to do, an unspoken promise to keep, to the dead of Moros. He did not delude himself that the defeat of Thr’un was anything but a first, small step in keeping that promise. Somewhere the real enemy, the real destroyer, still lived, still strove to spread his deadly infection of violence and murder.
‘Tell Talis,’ he said slowly, ’that it is as much my fight as his – or more. Tell him that I will work with the Overseers, but not for them. I will accept advice and assistance, but not orders. Tell him that wherever I go, I will do what I can and what I must – but my way, without interference.’
Talis understands the conditions, and agrees.
‘And do you come along as well?’
Of course,Glr laughed. You would certainly never survive without me.
Keill lay back in the slingseat. In his mind’s eye an image formed – an image that always lurked on the edge of his imagination, that would probably always continue to lurk there. The image of the planet Moros as he last saw it – bathed in a glowing haze of lethal radiation, in which everything and everyone that Keill had loved had met their deaths.
And beyond that image, another, newer one. Like a black shadow across his inner vision. The dark mystery of the Warlord – and the shadow of the Deathwing.
The Overseers are waiting for your confirmation,Glr broke in.
‘Tell the Overseers,’ Keill said, ’confirmed. Absolutely confirmed.’
The Last Legionary 2: Deathwing over Veyna
By Douglas Hill
BOOK TW
O OF THE LAST LEGIONARY SERIES
PART ONE
REBELS OF CIUSTER
CHAPTER ONE
The watcher among the rocks had not noticed the point of light when it had first appeared, high in the pale yellow sky. Only when it had fallen further, enlarging, brightening, did the watcher's one huge eye glimpse it.
The watcher's six arms halted their activity. Within its cold brain messages were relayed and received. Silently it moved backwards, into a shadowed cleft among the rocks, its eye fixed unblinkingly on the hurtling object in the sky.
In seconds the object revealed itself as a metal capsule, man-sized and coffin-shaped. It fell bathed in fire as the atmosphere flared along its metal skin. And it fell with a high-pitched howl as its small retro rockets cut in, slowing its plunge - and at last depositing it with a bump and a slide among the rocks.
It was a standard escape capsule, in use on many of the spacecraft in the Inhabited Worlds. It had a tiny power supply, enough for some guidance control, for its retros and for a continuous "Mayday" broadcast while in flight. It was a spaceman's last resort when his ship was dangerously malfunctioning, beyond repair.
The capsule came to rest less than a hundred metres from the watcher. The great eye observed steadily as a seam opened in the capsule's hull, parting it into two halves. From within it, as if hatching from an egg, a spacesuited man emerged.
The man unfastened his helmet and took a deep, grateful breath of the cold air, then began to peel off the spacesuit, indifferent to the biting wind that swirled and moaned around him. He was a tall, lean young man with a strong-boned face, wearing what seemed to be a uniform - dark-grey tunic and close-fitting trousers tucked into boots. On the cuffs of the tunic were flashes and stripes of colour, and a sky-blue circlet decorated the upper chest. The same circlet appeared on the spacesuit helmet, and on the open and now useless capsule.
The man folded the spacesuit into a manageable bundle with the helmet and breathing pack, then straightened, studying his surroundings. It was an uninviting landscape of dark, bare rock, so ridged and creased and corrugated that, from above, it would look like badly crumpled cloth. Much of the rock was discoloured with broad smears of a substance that gleamed a sickly blue under the pale sun.
Yet, for all its dismal appearance, it was a place with an oxygen atmosphere, able to support human life - even if not comfortably. If the man from the capsule had been an ordinary spaceman, who had ejected from a crippled ship, he could have counted himself lucky.
But luck had nothing to do with it. His ship was intact -orbiting in deep space, under the guidance of the most unusual pilot in the Inhabited Worlds.
And the man from the capsule was no ordinary spaceman.
He was Keill Randor, the sole survivor of a race of people who had once been the galaxy's most renowned and most supremely skilled fighting force - the Legions of the planet Moros.
And he had chosen to land as he had done for a purpose - as part of a task he had to accomplish in this bleak place.
As his gaze swept across his surroundings, he caught a glint of metal deep in a shadowed deft. He moved closer, warily - and saw the watcher.
And he knew that his task had begun.
The watcher was a robot - a work-robot, he recognized, probably with a limited programme and no decision faculties. Its body was wide and pyramid-shaped, with a low centre of gravity to keep it upright on tough terrain. It had six arms - flexible, whippy tentacles of metal - with tools on their extremities, mining tools like drills, scoops, pincer-like grabs. Surmounting the body, some two metres from the ground, was a scanner "eye" - which relayed pictures to screens that humans would monitor.
The robot moved slowly out from the shadow, rolling on heavy, rubbery treads that made its advance eerily silent.
Keill Randor stood still, watchful but relaxed, fairly sore that the heavy robot was no danger to him.
But he was less sure of his safety when, looking up, he saw two human figures who had appeared on a nearby rise, with old-fashioned laserifles held ready in their hands.
The smaller of the two figures waved an arm in a beckoning gesture. Keill gathered up his spacesuit and obeyed, moving with sure-footed, athletic speed up the uneven slope.
Both of the others wore hooded, one-piece coveralls, shiny and metallic, and probably thermally controlled. Garments like them were commonplace on many planets in the Inhabited Worlds. And the smaller of the two was a woman, for the coverall did nothing to hide the shapeliness of her figure — no more than it bid the bulk and muscle of her taller companion.
As Keill drew near, he saw an open, balloon-wheeled ground-car - of a make almost as out-of-date as the laserifles -standing a short distance beyond the two figures. He also saw the bulky man swing the rifle to fix its ugly muzzle on his chest.
But the woman merely looked him up and down, then nodded. She had large, dark eyes in a delicately oval face, but they held an expression of cool and competent authority.
"We picked up your mayday," she said. "My name's Joss -this is Groll."
"Keill Randor. Thanks for coming out" He glanced briefly at the rifle held by the bigger man. "No need for that - I'm not armed."
"Precautions," the woman said. "You've dropped into the middle of a war."
"I know," Keill said. "That's why I'm here." As the woman raised her eyebrows, he added, i heard some news about trouble here on the Ouster, and thought I could find work. But my ship's drive overloaded and I had to come the rest of the way in the capsule."
The woman called Joss studied him curiously. "Work? Are you some sort of soldier ?"
'Some sort."
'Mercenary!" spat the big man named GroD, a sneer on his coarse-featured face.
Keill looked at him coldly. "Nothing wrong with being a mercenary - depending on who you fight for, and why."
Groll was about to reply when the woman silenced him with a gesture. "You'd better come and talk to the Council," she said thoughtfully, motioning to the ground-car.
The vehicle was not only old-fashioned but old. Its drive stuttered and bellowed, its body rattled with every bump, and there was a bump every few centimetres. Conversation would have been impossible even if the biting wind had not snatched words away from mouths. So Keill sat back, staring out at the dismal vista of blue-smeared rock, wrapping himself in his thoughts.
He knew a good deal about this place where he had landed - more than he would admit to its people. He had come as prepared as possible, yet ahead of him remained a huge range of unknowns, of questions and mysteries. He would have to deal with them as they came up, while posing as a wrecked spaceman, a drifter, a soldier of fortune.
If they accepted him, his task would be that much easier. If not... then his ship and its strange pilot were near enough to scoop him up if he ran into dangers that even he could not overcome. So he was not alone.
Certainly not as alone as he once had been, totally, overwhelmingly, when he had learned that he was the only living remnant of an entire race of people. A race that had been deliberately, inhumanly, murdered.
At the time, he had not expected to feel that mind-numbing loneliness for long. The deadly radiation that had enveloped his world, the planet Moros, had brushed lighdy against him, enough to plant a slow death within him. He had set out then, alone, with a steely determination, to use what time he had left to find out who had destroyed his world, and why.
But he had been diverted. And bis life had been altered in ways that he would once have thought beyond belief.
He had been gathered up by a group of strange, elderly scientists, brilliant beyond the level of genius, whom he had come to know as the "Overseers'. In their secret base, hidden within a small, uncharted asteroid, he had been cured of the radiation's lethal effects - and had learned the truth behind the murder of Moros.
The Overseers, tirelessly keeping watch over the Inhabited Worlds with uncanny monitoring devices, had discovered the existence of a mysterious being who was the singl
e most malignant danger to the well-being of the unsuspecting galaxy.
Knowing little else about this being - neither where, nor what, nor who he was - they had given him a name of their own: the Warlord.
But the Overseers at least knew the intentions of the Warlord. He was sending out emissaries and agents to spread the infection of war throughout the galaxy - to set nation against nation, race against race, planet against planet Until, if he had his way, all the Inhabited Worlds would be ablaze with an ultimate wax - and the Warlord would be waiting to emerge and rule whatever was left after that final catastrophe.
It was the Warlord, the Overseers were sure, who had destroyed Moros - before the Legions too could learn of his existence, and turn their might against him.
So the Overseers had sought and found Keill Randor, the last legionary - and probably the most skilled fighting man in the galaxy, whether piloting his one-person space fighter or in individual, hand-to-hand combat. They wanted Keill to be tbeir emissary - to go to worlds where they suspected the Warlord's influence was at work, and there to learn more about him and wherever possible to thwart his plans.
Keill had agreed - for the fight against the Warlord was his fight, too, against the murderer of Moros. But when he had left the secret asteroid to begin that fight, he had left considerably changed.
For one thing, the Overseers" scientific genius had not merely healed him of the radiation's effects. That deadliness had settled in Keill's bones - so the Overseers had replaced his entire skeletal structure, with a unique organic alloy. It was stronger and more resilient than even the toughest metal. As far as the most demanding tests showed, it was unbreakable.